March is one of those devious months. In the South, it holds
the potential of spring. In other parts of the USA, it's only
another cold month of winter.
For me, March is the month after. Daniel died in
February, and the first March after that, I was appalled to
see buds on the forsythia. What was life doing displaying
herself like that after my son had died? How could spring
make herself known when my child would never cradle a rose
or iris in his hand again (even if he did pick it from
the neighbor's garden)?
Since then, spring has flourished, sometimes early---at
times late---and yet my son has not joined her. In my
opinion, those first springs were gleaming with too much
life. I was not ready to let go of the damp and bitter
days of winter because the coldness better matched the
state of my damaged heart.
Gradually, I learned to handle the frustration. Under
weeping willow trees, I wrote out my pain. I cried.
I teetered between wanting to make the most of each day,
and wanting life to abruptly end.
Somewhere along the years, I came to embrace. Now the
colors of the irises and beauty of the delicate roses
are signs of hope as they thrive in the sun. I hold the
memories of Daniel close, and when I see spring's new
buds, I try to focus on his new life in Heaven.
That is usually too mind-boggling for a simpleton
like me. So, I simply watch the caterpillars on
the leaves, touch the petals of the azaleas, and
as the warm breezes blow, am grateful.
Even so, I cry. After all these years, I still
experience that tinge of emptiness when March
arrives. Like she doesn't quite belong in my
sorrow. Like she's trying to show-off when the
mood is supposed to be somber.
I guess it will always be this way for me.
Finally, I have realized, that's okay.